Wednesday, September 20, 2006

When experiencing something for the first time, it either a) lives up (or down) to your expectations, b) is far worse than previously hoped, or c) way better than your lovliest hallucinations. C is by far the most enjoyable. C is expecting Demolition Man to be horrible only to discover that it's roughly three times better than Casablanca. C is eating a 79 cent breakfast and not getting dysentary. C is finding out you look good in a cowboy hat. C is South Dakota.

I mentioned yesterday I was excited about this state. My Eccentric America tourbook has a surprisingly detailed, shockingly lengthy chapter on South Dakota. It's not all crackpot festivals like the Wyoming Testicle Fair or the Great Idaho Bed Parade or Colorado's Frozen Dead Guy Day, either. No, sir. They've got the Corn Palace (which we visited after closing and is, well, at the very least, it's aptly named). They've got the Badlands. They've got Walldrug and a four dead guys carved on the side of a mountain. They've got Jackalopes. I mean, rabbits with antlers? Step aside duck-billed platapus. The freak train has a brand new conductor. And, sorry, but what do you got North Dakota? A Rock Museum? The World's Most Unfortunate Enima? Exactly. Game. Set. Match. South Dakota.

Since we're working on a twelve or thirteen hour drive today, we decided to stop at all of the aforementioned attractions. The Badlands are gorgeous in a lifeless, eerie sort of way, like a giant mouth of rather poorly cared for teeth. Mount Rushmore is, well, remember the a), b), and c) above? Well, it lived up to expectations. Totally impressive, staggeringly large, and thoroughly odd when you really sit down and think about it (mountain plus giant noggins equals patriotism). And the guy who designed it has one of the most absolutely bad ass names of all time: Gutzon Borglum. Sounds like a Douglas Adams character. Or a $2000 Jeopardy question. Either way, don't say I never taught you anything.

And you know what? Hats off to Gutzon Borglum. He chose four of the good presidents. When I was in New York, I had a conversation in a diner about our currency and how, of all people, Andrew "Trail of Tears" Jackson is on our twenty dollar bill. Talk about a dickcheese. FDR got the dime because of the March of Dimes (which made that whole Reagan on the dime campaign all the more infuriating), Washington got the one for being One, but Jackson? He sucked. He was a shmuck. He didn't even have a cool beaver hat or spectacles or an embarrasing ponytail. So, let's throw him off. Let's start a petition. I can think of a hundred people more qualified. And, as Ben Franklin proves, you don't even have to be the Commander in Chief to be on it. Martin Luther King? Much better. Millard Fillmore? Why not? Howie Mandell would be better, for God's sake. Not that I'd advocate for that cue-bald, washed-up, once-Bobby's World voicing, now forsaking humanity on a game show featuring mainly labotomized rubes son of a bitch, but, hey, he's no Andrew Jackson. How bout Doc Holliday? Frederick Douglas? Earl Warren? Dr. J? It's not too hard being less horrendous than Andrew Jackson. Even Ty Cobb gives him a run for his money. So, next time I go to the ATM, I expect any of the above cantidates smiling at me. If England can put Darwin on the 10 pound note, we can put Dr. J on the 20. Let's make it happen.

Lastly, there's Walldrug. Located in the city of Wall, South Dakota (population roughly equal to the block I live on in San Francisco), Walldrug is a monument to tawdry bric a brac, 5 cent coffee, jerky of varying low qualities, candy containing ingedients unstable enough that a mere ten chemists worldwide can concoct them, humorous stockings, western wear, donuts, already broken cap guns, sno-globes, taxidermed prarie dogs, eye-gougingly atrocious original oil landscapes---so, basically, Walldrug is paradise. I would live there if they rented rooms. I bought a new wallet and spent what was left in my old one. I had to be forcibly removed from the premises.

Now? Well, we're in Montana. It's over five hundred miles across and we've got to finish it off this evening, then, unless road fatigue has overtaken us all, it's through Idaho to Spokane. Dave and I just sacrificed two hours of our lives to the Gods of Useless Non-Entertainment watching the Cutting Edge (hockey player gets injured, teams up with a bitchy figure skater who can't keep a partner, attempts to regain former icy glory, falls in love in the process) and, well, we enjoyed it immensely. Ridiculous in the truest sense of the word. As in, worthy of ridicule.